Pee Wee's Sexy Freshman Year

PEE WEE'S SEXY FRESHMAN YEAR

INTRODUCTION

The year is 1960. This story is the most recent in a series about Pee Wee's heroic adventures, this time detailing his first year of college. Where Ulysses had to face hurdles on his trip back from Troy, Pee Wee had to make it through his freshman year, a year of intense learning, while confronting the sexual mores of a new environment and finding relief in any orifices available.

Pee Wee had never lived alone, he always had his Mom and Dad to fall back on for support. Now he was on his own. Unfortunately, there was very little financial support from home. Survival was a day-to-day struggle and obtaining nourishment was sometimes difficult. To get by he picked up a few dollars working odd jobs.

nb. Our hero's nickname was for baseball's famous player, Pee Wee Reese).

Pee Wee's sexual adventures were typical sexual encounters for an eighteen-year-old. The sexual revolution had just started and females were warming up to the idea of having coitus following 'make out' sessions, although some adhered to old traditions requiring engagement before unlocking the pubic doorway.

Pee Wee has multiple sexual adventures with a variety of women (some older than he) and occasional off-beat involvements with men. His roommate is an outlandish homosexual and his freshman English Professor claims to have a medical need for semen. There is a lot of 'kiss and tell' as Pee Wee rounds all the bases, successfully hitting home runs in the land of the Brobdingnag.

And so our story starts with Pee Wee talking;

PEE WEE'S FRESHMAN YEAR BEGINS

Just call me Pee Wee. Like most college freshmen in 1960, enrolled in Hortense Normal State Teachers College, I was happy to have arrived at a respected learning center, despite my high school adviser's assurances that no college would accept me.

Hortense was located in the middle of nowhere, in a town called Tranquility, Nebraska, surrounded by miles of farms, and an occasional gasoline or oil refinery. The day I arrived, I purchased a bright red Hortense sweatshirt and I felt proud to wear it.

COLLEGE HISTORY

The College was named for a religious zealot, raped untold times by government troops during the Indian Wars. Why? Because she was mistaken for a native Indian. She wasn't a Native Indian! Nonetheless, Harriet Hortense had thick skin between her legs and survived to become a famous suffragette who campaigned for women's rights. She was vehemently opposed to slavery. She shocked Victorian audiences with her reminiscence about being raped by soldiers sent to rescue her.

"My fate was sad and terrifying, but after my ordeal on that darkened plain, I met my husband. That made it all worthwhile," wrote Hortense in her diary. Her husband had rescued her, dragging her away from a violent mob of soldiers intent on repeatedly raping her. She would recount these stories to largely female audiences at suffragist events over a hundred years ago.

As you might expect, Pee Wee's college was controlled by a religious minority, a strange sect that originated during Henry the Eighth's persecution of the Catholic Church. They practiced meditation similar to the Quakers. The congregation would meet and meditate. One by one, a member who desired to speak, would rise and make a statement. These personal observations dealt with finding signs of divinity in nature and the sensation of ecstasy during sexual passion. Frequent sexual activity was encouraged for its spiritual value. Over the years, this emphasis on reproduction resulted in a rapid increase in the group's population.

College students were encouraged to attend religious meetings. Pee Wee went to a meeting in the first week. He spoke of his search for God. After he used the word 'pussy,' he was asked to leave. His contribution was deemed prurient. After his expulsion, he was given a list of rules relating to what can or cannot be said at the services.The few times afterward when he did attend, he made no gaffs.

At these services, college students were instructed to abstain from masturbation, or any sexual activity with the opposite sex. The church desired to eliminate these activities by influencing student behavior. The church did not condone freedom of speech, adult films, and publications (such as Playboy and Hustler--now bankrupt or no longer being published) through which the students, for close to 50 years, received mundane and impure information. College board members desired to control sexual mores, but human nature does not always bend to religious dogma.

The directors on the school board believed that alcohol and condoms caused rampant sexual activity that was destroying Western civilization. Liquor stores were not permitted inside the city limits. Condoms were not sold in the college drugstore. A student needing such hardware had to travel twenty miles north to buy 'rubbers,' and a six-pack of low alcohol 'near beer.'

Gas station restrooms were permitted to dispense female sanitary products but not birth control devices. The college town was as dry as a nun's cunt before the priest's holiday visits. In violation of the city's dry rulings, several gas stations kept coke bottles of home-brewed moonshine hidden behind the cashier's station.

A service station, several blocks away from the college student center, fermented horse feed to brew the potent liquor. After two glasses you might start to whiny. The odor of the ferment was so overpowering, that most people, unaware of the cause of the foul odor, avoided stopping to gas up. The moonshine brewed was very potent. After several shots, most girls were tempted to loosen their grip on virginity. The brown bottles of the dark liquid bore the label, "To be Used Only for Panty Removal."

PEE WEE'S FRESHMAN YEAR BEGINS

WITH DEBBIE AT THE TRAIN STATION

Pee Wee is speaking...

On a windy balmy day at the beginning of September, I left my home where I'd spent my formative years and took the train to the distant northwest. A foreign land where reality, as I knew it, seemed suspended. After a night of travel and a hearty Pullman's breakfast of bacon and eggs in the dining car, the train ascended a spiral ride around a mountain. As the clouds parted we arrived at our destination. From our vantage point, I could see the little college town laid out neatly in front of us. I expected to find a new life and experiences that would make me an adult.

There is something mysterious and magical about train stations. I remembered my hometown train station where I started my trip. It was a commuter town, and the riders did not show up in their downtown offices with dull shoes. The solution was a bootblack or shoe-shine boy (Jesus, all these words are pejorative) at the center of the train station lobby, where a chair as tall as Charlemagne's throne stood. The captain was Mr. George, the shoe shiner. He held court every morning with commuters.

Mr. George was a friendly guy. He had a big smile, a shiny gold tooth in the center of his mouth, and as the day wore on and his business waned, he always had a word of caution for the youngsters,

"Don't ya go near dem outside bathrooms out near da tracks, dat's where the bad men is hang'in out."

Even if I had to pee, and I was now an adult long past eighteen years old, I still would prefer to pee my pants then use the train lavatory out back near the tracks. In my imagination, the stories of Jimmy Heisenberg's disappearance were tied to immoral acts that we assumed took place in that horrid foul-smelling area. The poor child disappeared and his fate was an object of conjecture among the school children. Jimmy did resurface several years later, quite surprised at the gossip. It seems his mother took him away without giving the school notice.

Wondrous mysterious events take place in train stations. When you enter a train station, you can feel the ghosts of past traveler's spirits in the air. There is a special smell of old wood and detergent. A large clock usually stands guard over the ticket seller's window.

When I first got off the train in Tranquility, Nebraska, a village on the outskirts of Omaha, I was disappointed with the size of the train station. It was very small. I was flummoxed by the broken Railroad Clock that hung over the ticket office window, and could not understand how no repairman had fixed the clock.

When I mentioned this conundrum to a railroad employee behind the window, he said,

"Well Sonny, it's correct twice a day."

A newsagent selling candy and red and black boxed 'Sen-sen' had a locked case and was nowhere in sight. Out in front was a taxi stand. Seated in a yellow hack, with the picture of an Indian Chief on the door, was Debbie Wingloss, a female taxi driver. The sight of a woman cab driver was a novelty to me. I'd only seen male cab drivers in my hometown back east.

"Excuse me, Miss, can you take me to the college?"

Debbie looked up at me with her big dark eyes. I could see she was seated on one of those 'chiropractic' seat covers made from wooden balls, guaranteed to solve any back problem.

"Get in, Mister," she said, welcoming me.

With a puff of smoke, we were on our way.

Debbie drove me from the train station to the campus and never stopped talking. It took about twenty minutes, enough time for her to tell me she was a Native Indian. Deb had long black hair with a mile-long ponytail, held in place with a tan leather strap. She wore silver earrings that looked like feathers. I estimated she was about 25 years old.

I found Debbie sexually attractive. She had two nice tits, dimpled cheeks, shiny white teeth, and I'd never fucked a Native American Indian. While Odysseus returning home from Troy had to confront Sirens, I found myself with Debbie. I could see a flirtiness in her eyes, and in the way she raised her eyebrows. I'd read that a woman will decide in the first few minutes of meeting a man if she will have sex with you. When Debbie gave me her home phone before dropping me off, I had the feeling I had qualified. She said,

"If you are feeling horny, give me a call. If a guy answers, it's my hubby, just hang up."

Deb was a font of information. She told me about a small jazz club where a pianist and a drummer performed nightly, a strange combo. You could buy booze served in glass Coke bottles, even though the town was dry. I was later to learn, on a subsequent visit, that there were two wallpapered rooms upstairs. If you were in the mood for sex, one of the frisky women seated at the bar could accompany up the bare wooden steps for a half-hour romance, rubber included. The cost of the lady's company was $25. The room rental was an extra $8.00 paid to the barkeep. This small town had a sexual sophistication that rivaled Paris, France.

While exploring my new playground, I took advantage of Debbie's advice and on more than one occasion I attended a nightly performance at the little Jazz Club. I had trouble getting free of a 'pay for play' lady intent on hanging onto my arm. She dragged me upstairs but when she opened the door and I saw a sad-looking bedroom, I disappointed her by backing out. I wasn't flush enough to pay the lady for her services and her perfume was stifling.

As time went on, I began to have good luck busting college girl's cherries, both virgin and secondhand cherries, so I did not feel the need to pay for sex, and I always skipped the upstairs entertainment. The two jazz musicians downstairs were well worth the visit. The moonshine 'cokes' were of A1 quality.

SCHOOL INTRO & BOB (DREXEL)

I arrived a few days before classes. At the administration office, I was told I needed to attend an hour-long indoctrination into college life at the assembly hall. I wasn't too concerned about learning about the history of the school. I knew college success would require study. I was more concerned with my immediate housing situation for the night. I was curious to find my dorm assignment, and who would be my roommate. I saw many students with their parents arriving, lugging suitcases and cardboard boxes. I was alone but quite confident I could get by.

At the front of the assembly hall was a desk marked DORM PLACEMENT, where a rather corpulent lady in multicolored spotted shorts sat. I got in line and waited for ten minutes to receive information about my dorm and room number. I watched her provide housing information to those in line ahead of me and wondered if the tight buttons on her blouse would bust before she got to me. No such event occurred. She smiled at me and went through a file box, handing me a card stating I was to live in the Buttress Dorm with a roommate called Bob Anders. As I walked away I could still smell her perfume.

When I arrived at my room, it was not empty. My roommate and his parents were seated there. After a brief introduction with his parents, and his sister who was wearing very thick glasses, I knew I would never have sex with his sister. When the family left, Bob seated himself on one of the beds without removing his shoes. Although quite demur before his parents left, I was to learn that my roommate was an aggressive homosexual. Bob's family were unaware of his predilection. Once we were alone, he said,

"I'm Bob Anders, but you can call me Drexel."

"I'm Pee Wee."

"Can I call you Peanut?"

"No, Pee Wee is my nickname, like the famous baseball player."

"Okay."

"I see you are taking the bed by the window."

"Yeah, I fart a lot."

"Good choice, I don't."

I soon learned that Bob's dad was a mid-level auto industry CEO. Dad had given Bob an old Ford split-window coupe to get around with. Bob was generous enough to permit me to use the car on my dates. After my dates, when Bob and I would go somewhere, he always complained the car smelled like pussy.

"It's just the old upholstery," I'd say, "When it gets damp and sweaty, it gives off an odor like a wet dog."

"Maybe sprinkle some after-shave lotion around the next time you take the car out," said Bob.

"Sure will," I didn't know his nose was so sensitive.

When Bob learned I was on a wrestling scholarship, he offered to be my massage therapist. From rubbing my back to copping a feel of my ass cheeks, it did not take long before I'd find him nude, hiding under my bed covers, with his rump pointing at the ceiling. I fell into his trap door several times before I knew what I was doing.

Horniness was the origin of the sailor's expression, "Any port in a storm," and God knew we college boys were all very horny. Now I understand what those words meant. Still, butt fucking men was not my preference, but my good-sized cock and super-sized testicles seemed to find favor with my roommate. The first time Bob's ass was presented to me I didn't know what to do. His hands showed me where to insert my cock and it felt good enough to continue.

Bob sent me a poem after the first time we had sex. I saved it and here it is:

You stood above me trembling

"Should I," you asked

"Yes, fuck me" I answered

Your big erection was hard

and slid firmly into my rectum

A pleasing feeling

that can't compare with

masturbation or coitus

As you fucked me,

I could feel your big balls

beating time on my perineum

You finally filled me up

with a pint of cum

I asked,

"Would you be mad if I said

I love you"

You just smiled and said nothing.

I guess in his laid-back way, Bob had fallen in love with me, or maybe he was in love with my dick. Except for adolescent 'grab-assing,' I had never experienced homosexuality, but it was certainly a better substitution than my nightly jerk-off.

My parents in infrequent letters, began whining about the cost of my dorm housing, which convinced me to look for off-campus living to save them money. There wasn't enough money to pay my dorm fees because Mom was fronting the cost of a weekly motel cabin affair with her lover, our Italian butcher. It wasn't the cost of my dorm housing or the cost of meat; it was the cost of her illicit sex. Free steaks filled our freezer, and also red-hot Italian sausages that probably resembled what Mario was stuffing in Mom's cunt.

MOM'S SEXUAL PROCLIVITIES

My mother was a sexual libertine with assorted lovers. My father, behaving like a pimp, was aware of her relations with his business clients and thought it was clever, amusing, and profitable. He was a quiet man overshadowed by her sexual energy. I remember him being titillated by an unattractive female client who while talking to him continually adjusted her bra straps and cleaned her glasses on her blouse. I guess most adults have such fantasies.

I think there was a feminine steak in the old man, but I don't know if he ever acted on it. Meanwhile, he was still fucking Mom. I'd see him and his late-night erection in the upstairs bathroom, where I sat on the toilet reading a Playboy and planning to jerk off. Jesus his dick looked big. He'd come knocking on the door. I'd sit on the toilet seat while he'd wash his oversized cock in the sink.

"You've been fucking Mom," I stated.

"Well son, some women have to be fucked frequently. If you don't do the job, someone else will. When that happens, you'll just have to get used to it."

Once he left me alone in the bathroom, I got down to my immediate nightly Playboy Magazine ritual--jerking off.

AT COLLEGE WITH DEBBIE

The weekend was coming up, so I decided to call Debbie. When she picked up the phone, the first thing she told me was,

"Hey Bud, I'm sitting here nude thinking of you."

I didn't know who Bud was, "I'm Pee Wee."

"Yeah, I know."

Then she complained, "I'm sidelined from the hack (cab) because the Sheriff's giant Swat vehicle totaled my taxi."

"How did that happen?"

"The local Keystone Cops were doing a practice run on the train station in case it was seized by terrorists. When the cops charged the train station, the idiot driver of the giant Swat vehicle misjudged the entry and sideswiped my cab, crushing it."

"What's next?"

"So, I'm not driving the wrecked cab right now. I'm out of business for now," said Debbie, "I'm waiting for a check from the town's insurance carrier. Hey, man, my hubby is away, why don't you come by to visit and stay the night?"

"Where is your husband?"

"My drunken husband is away at a tribal retreat in the forest north of the county. The braves use it as an excuse to get plastered and then sit in a sweat house. Jesus, come on over, we can have some fun."

"Should I bring anything?"

"I've got booze and stuff, just bring your cock and balls."

I borrowed a student's bike to ride to her neighborhood. Debbie's home was just outside the city limits on a dirt road. It was a small wooden Hubbard-designed home, a kit house manufactured a hundred years ago. Years ago, thousands of these homes arrived by freight train from Grand Rapids, usually in three large cartons with a manual for assembly. Kit houses were popular in small towns across the country. Debbie's neighborhood was filled with them.

Debbie came to the door wearing only a yellow towel wrapped around her. She was dripping wet, just out of the hot tub. Her big boobs could not be confined by the towel and popped out mid-sentence.

"Come on in Pee Wee, let's go hot tubbing."

How could I refuse?

"But I didn't bring a suit?"

"You don't need no suit. Just bring this," and she pinched my dick, "That's enough."

I kicked off my jeans, threw my shirt on top of the pile, scooped up my clothing, and followed her. Debbie was an attractive exotic. I stared at her curvy nude ass. Her skin was a red mahogany color.

"My God you are so beautiful," I said."Your skin color is magnificent."

"You'll have to thank my forbearers, I'm probably eighty percent pure Indian, a trace of black and some mixed heritage," She explained, "After the slaves were liberated, many settled down and became members of our tribe."